


A Lesson In Time

by CharlotteDaBookworm



Series: Somnusson AU [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Galahdian Culture (Final Fantasy XV), Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Filicide, Memorials, Misplaced Hatred, Nyx is Somnus' son, Solheim Culture (Final Fantasy XV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21955210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlotteDaBookworm/pseuds/CharlotteDaBookworm
Summary: “I loved you,” he says and it’s true. It’s always been true. He loved the man who had been his father. “I loved you, even as you hurt me. I loved you, even as I realised that my father had never existed - that I’d never been anything but an heir to you. That you never truly loved me.”“I loved you, even as I feared you. I loved you, even as I hated you.”"But no more."Or: There is no blow quite like when you realise that you never meant anything to a person to whom you gave everything
Relationships: Nyx Ulric & Original Character(s), Ramuh (Final Fantasy XV) & Nyx Ulric, Somnus Lucis Caelum & Nyx Ulric
Series: Somnusson AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1225994
Comments: 7
Kudos: 76





	A Lesson In Time

**Author's Note:**

> “You don’t deserve my image in your head.  
> You don’t deserve my memories in your chest.”  
> ― Jamie Weise

Nyx Ulric loved his father with all of his heart.

_Hypnos Lucis Caelum loved his father with all of his heart._

Nyx, son of Somnus, is dead.

_Hypnos, son of King Somnus, is dead._

In his last moments, beaten and broken and screaming, he looked into the eyes of one he had so trusted and he couldn’t believe it.

_In his last moments, struggling to his feet even as he gasped for breath, he refused to accept it._

He didn’t think there was any fight left in him.

_He would go down fighting._

He was wrong.

_He fought_.

Nyx was silent, his voice hoarse from hours begging for his uncle’s life, from hours of sobbing tears spent and screaming threats unleashed and litanies of apologies.

_Hypnos asked them once more to leave, told them once more that they will be forgiven, and his voice was hoarse from the kindness he offers to them._

His head bowed in silent grief.

_His head bowed in silent grief_.

He raised his head.

_He raised his head_.

Still, he defied him.

_Still, they fought._

Even as his uncle’s blood-soaked his skin, intermingling with his own.

_Even as their blood ran as freely as his own, soaking into the mud._

Even as the spear pierced his gut.

_Even as a sword pierced his chest_.

He had no breath to scream.

_He had no breath to scream_.

He looked into the cold eyes of his father, of the man who had raised him, who had protected him- who had shoved a gift into his chest and was watching him die with a stone face. He doesn’t understand why-

_He looked into the cold eyes of his enemies, people that his father had warned him about his entire life, people who they were technically at peace with- who were working for his uncle and had shoved his own blade into his chest and were watching him die with stone faces. He doesn_ _’t understand why-_

What happened to the father he loved?

_What happened to the uncle he loved?_

Didn’t he understand this was wrong?

_Didn_ _’t he understand his father was right?_

The world fades black.

_The world fades black._

(His last thoughts are of his father)

_(His last thoughts are of his father)_

Nyx died-

_Hypnos died_ -

a prince,

_a prince,_

a monster,

_a hero,_

a traitor.

_a martyr._

Unmourned by any.

_Mourned by all_.

Nyx dies

_Hypnos dies_

but then he lives.

_but he lives on._

Torn from his rest, from his peace, from his family,

_His memory is held by his father, by his brother_ , _by his people_ ,

he lives.

_he lives._

Nyx Ulric will not be remembered,

_Hypnos Lucis Caelum will not be forgotten,_

hidden away in Galahd but alive.

_as a martyr for his father_ _’s cause._

**_but Hypnos Lucis Caelum never existed_ **

* * *

Hate festers.

It’s something he remembers his uncle telling him, something that his grandmother had told him before, and it’s true. Hate festers and, maybe it’s just him, but it infects everything.

Because Nyx--

He hates everything, some days. (Himself, his uncle, the world, the astrals, life. His father. The love he still feels for the man who slaughtered them). He stares at the ocean, at the rivers, at the sun shining through the leaves onto the market and Nyx just hates.

And he hates himself for it.

_A vicious cycle_ , some long-dead scholar had called hate - true, consuming hate - in one of their dusty tomes and they were right. He hates and he hates and he hates.

He wishes he could stop but he doesn’t know _how_.

So Nyx forces himself outside - to the markets, on walks, even just lying outside of his house - because he might not know how to deal with the hate that burns in his chest but he knows how to deal with his health.

If he hates the way that everyone’s eyes seem to be on him, the way they whisper and _stare,_ well.

He knows he needs to go outside. Even if he hates the way his hands shake uncontrollably. Even if he hates the way they want to talk to him, the way they _care_.

_(he failed and his uncle died and he still loves the man who did it even as he hates him and he_ _’s supposed to be_ **_dead_ ** _)_

He hates everything anyway, these days.

Nyx wanders and sometimes people don’t talk to him and he wishes they would. Nyx wanders and sometimes people talk to him and he wishes they wouldn’t. Nyx walks outside and he hates the way his body still feels too small for his skin and the way he flinches from storms and blades and-

A small hand taps his back.

He spins and Ren is there, grinning at him with brown eyes sparkling with innocent joy and his own lips twitch in response. “Wanna play Hunter and Prey with us?”

“Again?” He asks, already knowing the answer; he doesn’t know why they keep wanting him to play but they seem determined to get him to join in every time.

“Uh-huh. We have an odd number.”

With a sigh that is mostly faked, because there’s no such thing as odd numbers in Hunter and Prey but he can’t bring himself to care, he shakes his head. What can he say to that?

Ren beams at him. “Come on then!” Wrapping gentle fingers around his own - that Nyx can just barely feel but still not move properly and the terror of that never fails to stop his heart, and he can’t help but hate that as well, hate the fear and the state of them and he just _hates_ \- and tugging him over to the pile of bouncing, giggling children.

Then, surrounded by bright innocent children who are happy to see _him_ , Nyx feels the hate fade away, just a little. It always comes back, but he feels a smile twist his lips as he dances between the trees, as he directs happy children to better hiding places and sneaks up on others, as older children help toddler siblings to hide in the grass and Nyx pretends not to find them. He plays with the kids and basks in the simple _joy_ of it all.

Nyx hates a lot of things these days.

But he could never hate kids. He knows that about himself, if nothing else.

_How could he ever hate something so innocent?_

* * *

“Nyx.”

He looks up, a smile stretching across his face and a greeting on his lips. “Ioanna, on your own today?” As he speaks, he stands and glances obviously at the empty space beside her.

She laughs. “You are safe today, my friend. Ren is in lessons with his father.”

“Thank the sun and storms,” he says with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “A day free from energetic children who wish for me to hunt with them.”

“You should be thanking me; my son was perfectly happy to miss his lessons to visit his favourite cousin before I told him otherwise.” Ioanna’s words are stern but her dark eyes twinkle with mirth, much like her son’s when he plans mischief.

Nyx’s grin widens as he half-bows. “Thank you then, my friend, for my freedom this day from my young cousin.” There is no blood between them, not in several generations at least, but blood matters so much less on Galahd than on the mainland. Family is chosen and shared and the importance of blood is only in marriages for children.

It’s a distinction Nyx finds he appreciates greatly, now that he knows firsthand that blood means little in the face of power.

His friend smirks, quicksilver and sharp, drawing him from his thoughts. “Your pottery certainly thanks me.” She gestures to the low stone he had been kneeling at.

He huffs a laughing sigh, brushing his braids out of his face with mud-caked fingers and - from the amused light that sparks in Ioanna’s eyes - streaking clay across his skin when his hands stutter with exhaustion. “I’m not certain it does, actually.” Ren certainly couldn’t have made the bowl _worse_ even with his attention…

“You’re improving,” Ioanna notes instead of commenting, which means that he’s correct.

But she’s right as well; his creations are functional if nothing else these days and his skill with the clay is growing as his dexterity returns. He just-

Nyx clenches hands that shake like he’s spent a day clutching a blade instead of two hours moulding clay, feeling the ache return with a vengeance. It’s better, he’s better, but still.

_He hates that his hands no longer listen to him_.

“What brings you here?” He shakes his head roughly, changing the subject from things he’d rather not think on.

Ioanna’s features soften, her smile falling away as something sad enters her eyes. “There’s news, carried from the mainland. I thought it best that you hear it from me rather than in the village gossip.” She hesitates then and Nyx swallows.

_(He_ _’s not dead he can’t be dead it’s been a year nobody cares enough to kill him he’s not dead)_

He forces a smile. “Surely it can’t be that bad.” He jokes, begging her silently to just speak and maybe she can read the panic on his face because Ioanna shakes her head slowly.

“The King has announced the birth of his heir, Prince Helios of the Kingdom of Lucis, born of the House of Caelum.”

Nyx’s breath freezes in his lungs.

Of all the things that she could have said, of all that could have happened, Nyx wasn’t expecting--

_“Can I have a sister?” He asks, staring up at his frozen father. “Or a brother. Or both. I don’t mind which if I can only have one but please?”_

_His dad coughs, kneeling down to speak to him._ _“Why do you want a sibling starlight?”_

_Nyx frowns; doesn_ _’t he get it? “’Cos you have Uncle Ardyn and Mags has Lily but I don’t have either. Please daddy, you don’t have to get me anything for my birthday.”_

_“Sorry, starlight,” his dad laughs, putting a hand on his head. “But I don’t need any more kids. You are more than enough for me.” But_ why can’t he have a brother or sister? _“I can take you to go see the chocobos though.” His dad adds quickly, pointing towards the stables and holding out his arms._

_“Chocobos!” He jumps up, clinging to his dad who smiles and mutters something about Uncle Ardyn laughing later--_

A hand lands on his arm, touch gentle but insistent, and Nyx slowly becomes aware of a voice speaking in his ear reminding him to _breathe-_

Nyx sucks in a breath, his chest burning and his throat aches and there’s something prickling at his eyes and he- he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t.

It- he- the King’s child doesn’t matter. Of course the man would need another heir, even if he didn’t want more kids, even if he’d _told Nyx that more than once,_ even if he’d told Nyx that _he_ _’d always be enough_ , even if-

No.

He doesn’t care.

(Why does it hurt?)

He _doesn_ _’t._

( _Why?_ He doesn’t understand)

Nyx doesn’t care.

(He thinks of the babe and a part of him **hates** )

* * *

He stokes the hearth carefully, bringing the flames to life as the sun sinks below the trees and bathes the room in the orange of glowing embers. The crackle and snap of dry wood burning settles him, grounds him, and Nyx _breathes_.

“What are you doing?” A small head peers over his shoulder.

Nyx laughs; well-used to the sudden appearances of his little cousin by this point. “Building up a fire.” He says simply, lips twitching when dark eyes turn to him angrily.

“I can _see that_ ,” Ren says, with an eye roll far too exasperated for a boy of not-yet twelve. “But why? It’s warm even for spring and you can’t plan to leave it burning overnight.” The boy frowns at the fire and the pile of wood he’s perched upon, gesturing with gangly limbs that Nyx is thankful to have long left behind.

“That’s exactly my plan.”

He ignores the glare that Ren turns on him, the boy has nothing on his mother yet, and places another piece of wood onto the fire. Nyx stifles a smile when the child huffs at him.

_“Why?”_

With his gaze still fixed on the fire that he’s sprawled out in front of, his smile falls. “It’s tradition.”

Ren sits back, perking up. “From one of the other islands?” He asks, ever the inquisitive boy who had first approached him to ask him to join a game and then spent half of it asking him questions about the world.

Nyx shakes his head. “From Solheim.” He says shortly, half hoping that Ioanna will come and collect her child before Ren’s utter lack of tact wins out.

“What’s it for?”

Obviously, it was a fools hope. He sighs; this isn’t something he’s ever had to explain to anyone, nor something he’s really wanted to talk about, but maybe… “Has your mother told you of how Solheim looked to Ifrit, like the Islands look to Ramuh?” Ren nods, silent and wide-eyed, and Nyx smiles gently. He probably looked the same, all those years ago. “People of Sol believe that we’re made of fire, that we live for the flames that burn within us _here,_ _”_ he pokes his little cousin in the centre of his chest, over his heart. “And when the people that we love our lost to us, the last embers of those flames are set free to join with Ifrit’s hearth.”

“Ifrit’s hearth?” Ren asks, head tilted in confusion.

“Like the Great Storm,” he clarifies.

The boy nods rapidly, his face lighting up with understanding, and then Nyx has to catch him with a grin as he tumbles off of his wooden perch. “I’m alright!” He says, straightening himself out and leaning back against the pile. “What is this fire for, then? If people go to be with the Flamebringer?”

At the curious prodding, Nyx’s smile softens. He turns back to the flames. “We light our hearth as the sun’s light dies and we keep them lit until it rises once more in order to give the embers of our loved ones a source to draw strength from - the flame calls them to us, so that we may be in their presence once more, and it also empowers them so that they may continue on their journey.”

“Does that mean you have to stay up _all night_ to make sure the fire doesn’t go out _?_ _”_

“Yes.”

“ _Wow._ _”_

He laughs, letting his shoulder brush against Ren’s as he reaches for another piece of wood to toss into the flames, so thankful that Ren at least has enough tact not to ask who he lit the fire for.

The kid snuggles up under his arm, staring at the flames in wide-eyed awe. He has the sinking feeling Ioanna is going to have a child convincing her to light her hearth even in the height of summer, but he cannot complain.

It hurts less, like this, even though he’s years late. Nyx doesn’t feel quite so alone.

Smiling at the flickering flames in the darkening light, he breathes in the scent of wood smoke and sunlight, of cinnamon and old books, of dirt and forest.

_Nana, Uncle Ardyn. I_ _’m sorry I waited so long. May the embers of your hearts never die as you take your place in the Hearth._

* * *

_“Little prince.”_

_He whines at the prodding voice; he_ _’s warm and comfortable and_ safe _and he never wants to wake up_.

_A laugh, soft and sad, chimes above him._ _“Oh, darling boy.” Her hand comes to rest on his face and he arches into the touch, into the warmth, with still-closed eyes as the scent of honey and cacao and paper and sword oil from his oldest memories surrounds him._

_It feels like if he opens his eyes then it will disappear and he-_

_His heart aches with comfort that feels foreign._

_Wrinkled, calloused fingers brush his braids from his face and draw nonsense patterns on his cheeks and it_ _’s almost enough to distract him from her words as he soaks in the touch with the desperation of a starving child. “Little one-”_

_“’m not little.”_

_“Little one,” she repeats, warm and soft and amused. “You must listen closely.” Her voice is stern, her grip firm as she nudges his face and urges focus but he- he doesn’t want to wake, doesn’t want to focus because he doesn’t want her to_ leave _._

_But she_ _’s never been one to back down._

_“_ Listen _,_ _” she urges and his drifting mind focuses on her. Her lips brush his forehead as she whispers the words against his skin. “The light still burns, darling, and one day you will find him. Remember, his light still burns.”_

_She pulls away and he reaches after her._

_“And remember little prince, you are never truly alone. I am always with you.”_

_His eyes snap open._

_He stares up at warm gold set into a weathered face, at sharp eyes and a soft smile and the love written into familiar features he only half remembers and he_ reaches _-_

_-she_ _’s pulled_ away--

-Nyx snaps awake, hand still outstretched. “ _Nana,_ ” he breathes; heart breaking and chest aching, eyes wide as tears well and spill because she’s **gone** again and it hurts, hurts so deep that he feels it in his bones and it’ll never go away, and he wants her back-

Golden fire flickers at his fingertips.

He freezes as a blade shimmers into existence against his hand in a shattering of sun-gold light instead of midnight-blue, the hilt of the dao warm against his palm. He doesn’t understand, his heart sinking and rising at the impossibility. Magic is _soul_ \- it’s everything you are, in everything you do, and the colour doesn’t just _change_.

It doesn’t-

Even **death** shouldn’t-

_“You are never alone,” she whispers, streams of gold reaching out to ruffle his hair and it’s so_ warm _when all he feels is cold._ _“I am always with you_.”

_“_ Nana,” Nyx chokes on a sob, flaring his magic around him like he hasn’t dared in months and watching as sun gold - _Solheim gold_ , the gold of their family’s eyes that he’s always wished he inherited instead of blue - flares into existence and it’s **warm**.

So warm even as Nyx reaches out and magic dances around his skin and it seeps into his skin, into his bones, into his veins and Nyx cries at the soul-deep knowledge that he’ll never be cold (ice-cold deep in his bones, an ache he can never chase as the chill radiates out of the hole in his chest because it’s missing, they took it from him) again.

He’ll never be _alone_ again.

Nyx sobs and his magic wraps around him like a hug, curling around him and through him and deep in his soul a long-silent voice _sings._

* * *

_“Did you hear what the King gave to his son for his naming day?”_

The murmur catches his attention from the other side of the marketplace and Nyx stumbles in his haggling. He manages to disguise it with a simple cough and an apologetic smile, continuing on for a moment before trading several of his wooden figurines and some spices for the warm fur from the North; it isn’t what his wares are worth, normally he would have haggled further, but his attention is on the conversation happening behind him.

“I heard it was extravagant.” A second woman, a blacksmith who is browsing the fruits, responds.

His heart in his throat, he drifts closer, stopping to make an exchange for some skewers of fried meat - Dualhorn, juicy with a nice balance of spices - and making the appearance of browsing himself even as his ears stay fixed on the conversation.

The first woman lowers her voice. “Apparently he gave him a spear made of _stars_.”

Nyx freezes.

_No,_ he thinks over the ringing of his ears. _He couldn_ _’t- He_ ** _wouldn_** ** _’t-_**

****

_(You thought that once before_ , a little voice in his head whispers)

He lowers the skewer, suddenly sick to his stomach, and it can’t be the same spear, even his fa- even Somnus won’t have-

A voice cuts through his thoughts. “-oh yes, a beautiful tribute, my sister called it. The Prince and the King were so emotional.”

_-cold eyes staring at him from a stone face, his own blood trailing down his father_ _’s cheeks, cold seeping into his limbs and pain like fire, a bundle of reddened cloth he can still see out of the corner of his eye, a throat hoarse from begging and screaming and_ I don’t recognise you, I don’t know you who are anymore, did I ever? _As a gift, so beloved, is raised and--_

“-can’t blame him, I couldn’t imagine being able to give away my boy’s trinkets if he was to pass like Prince Hypnos did, even to his siblings.”

“Yes, but apparently the King told Prince Helios when he gifted him the spear that it was ‘so that he might carry a piece of him always’-”

_-he doesn_ _’t scream, can’t scream even as the man who’d tucked him into bed and cuddled him after nightmares digs deep and_ **_rips_ ** _and blood soaks engraved stars and he--_

_-I love you starshine--_

_- **foolish child** , he snarls as Nyx chokes on his cries, as his uncle screams upon the cross and he. just._ watches--

“Are you well?” The gruff voice cuts through the white noise of his head and the hatred rippling through his chest.

Nyx nods jerkily, blindly grabbing a trinket from the man’s stall and handing over a small pot of spice without words. He walks away, his memories still screaming in his ears, and his hands shake and clench - cutting into crescents of nail and wood into his palms.

It’s only when he’s out of the crowd, when he’s alone, that he looks down at the item he’s just bought.

A carved star stares back at him.

_Oh,_ he realises - he finally accepts - and the thought pushes through a head brimming with water. _I was never anything but an heir to him_. He should have known.

_(A babe who he_ _’d_ **_hated_ ** _at first mention even if he wouldn_ _’t admit why--)_

He _did_ know.

Nyx just doesn’t know why it hurts.

_(His chest **aches** )_

* * *

He frowns at the pot.

With a glance outside at the deepening clouds, pausing to stir the contents, he moves it away from the heat before anything burns - breathing in the scent of the simple stew that he ladles into two bowls (his own, not an artwork but far better than they used to be). Then, Nyx stoops by the hearth to pull the bread from the flames and sets it all on the short table by the fire before sitting down.

His food is captivating and he’s hungry, but he waits, almost content in the warmth of the hearth.

He glances outside again. It’s already dark, even beyond the clouds, the sun sinking rapidly and bringing winters chill even to the coast.

The other side of the table remains empty.

Nyx sighs.

Pushing himself back to his feet, Nyx leans outside to glare at the sky. “Are you coming or not?” He yells into the storm clouds. “Your food is going cold!” And then he turns around and walks back inside, sitting back before his food.

A second figure, draped in robes instead of Nyx’s simple tunics, settles opposite him.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re late.” He reminds his guest.

Ramuh bows his head marginally in acknowledgement. It doesn’t hide the amusement in his glowing eyes. “My apologies.”

“I’m thankful you could make it.”

“As am I.”

Nyx smiles at the Astral, completely relaxed as he lifts his bowl. “It’s squirrel this year.”

The Old Man smirks, lips nearly hidden in his flowing beard, as his hands wrap around his own bowl. “Not coeurl?” He asks cheekily.

He laughs, coughing into his stew. “Coeurl meat is a little _sparky_ ,” he retorts, grinning when the sky rumbles with shocked laughter and then he yelps as the table shocks him.

“How _shocking_ ,” Ramuh deadpans and smirk widens in a challenge.

His eyes narrow, chin lifting. He’s going to _win_ this.

He doesn’t.

But hours later, when Ramuh has long since left, Nyx lays beside the fire - warm, inside and out, from hearty food and shared laughter and the comforting presence of family in his home - and it’s as he stares into the flames that he remembers.

_The light still burns_ , his nana’s voice whispers in his mind. **_His_** _light still burns_ and Nyx--

_One day, you will find him_.

Nyx freezes, eyes wide, and feels the blood drain out of his face. There is only one person who his nana could be speaking of, only one person he knows whose name means _the light that burns_ and his heart skips a painful beat at the realisation.

And the thought of it hurts because it can’t be true, because he watched him _die_ but he was living proof that that doesn’t _matter._

_HIS FATE SHALL BE YOUR FATE, EVERMORE._ And the memory **burns** and his heart aches and oh, his failure is even worse than he’d believed.

Because if his light still burns and Nyx can find him?

_That means his uncle lives._

* * *

Even standing at the very back of the crowd, far enough that he can hardly even see the figures he is there for, Nyx is terrified. So terrified that he can’t even hear the words of the crowd around him for the rushing of the blood in his ears.

A hand grips his shoulder. “ _Breathe_ , cousin.”

Nyx breathes.

His lungs burn as he leans back into Ren’s hand, letting the bulk of him - and how the gangly child had grown so broad, Nyx doesn’t understand - guard his back and forcing himself to relax.

He isn’t alone, he trusts Ren, nobody isn’t going to look past the cloak and paints to recognise him.

Everything is going to be fine.

Nyx’s eyes drift back to the centre of the crowd and he can just make out the glint of silvered metal and a _stave_ and he—

_How could he--_

“Do you see him?” Ren asks and Nyx tears his eyes away.

“Learn some patience,” he scolds him; pressing back into his cousins grasp in silent thanks. He scans the crowd, looking for any glint of red even though he doubts it will be this easy.

A part of him doubts he will even be here.

_(Would his uncle risk it? Does he share Nyx_ _’s fears?)_

Each redhead he dismisses threatens to freeze his lungs and Nyx does his best to focus on the childish complaints of the boy who looks older than he.

_(Does his uncle even want him to find him?)_

Ren’s hand tightens.

He shakes his head. “He’s not here.” He says with some certainty, though he dares not reach out with his magic to confirm what he senses to be true.

His friend takes him at his word. “Mum is going to murder us both for sneaking out here and then finding nothing.”

Nyx winces. “Yes, but--”

The crown cheers, cutting him off, and Nyx looks back to the centre to see a kneeling figure and the glint of the crown and his lungs freeze and **burn**.

Because that was him, once. Kneeling before his father and his uncle and his people as they rested the future responsibility of their kingdom on his shoulders and he’d been so _proud_ , so _happy_ , and now it aches.

He even used the same _crown._

_(He doesn_ _’t think he’s ever hated anyone more)_

_(The problem is - he doesn_ _’t know which one he means)_

Ren pulls him back a step, holding him upright as Nyx stumbles, and his laugh is tense. “Careful not to fall on your face, cousin.”

Nyx snarls, angry and terrified and _aching_. “Fuck you Ostium.”

He glances back and a part of him _hates_.

_Hates that he is so easily **replaced**._

* * *

_The King is dead_ , they whisper.

_The King of Lucis is dead; an old man ravaged by illness in his sleep, his heir confirmed and a man grown_ , the missives say.

_The Mystic is dead,_ the news spreads like wildfire across land and sea. _The Founder King is dead_.

Nyx is on the coast when the word is brought by traders who whisper of people in mourning and funeral arrangements, of lavish tombs and ascension ceremonies, of how the Bright mourns for his father and Nyx--

He should feel something, he should want to celebrate, he should…

He’s _free_.

But he feels nothing. It changes _nothing_.

The man who haunts his nightmares is dead.

_(The monster who still strikes terror in his heart, the ruler whose land Nyx has long feared entering, the_ frail old man _who he hasn_ _’t seen in decades-)_

He should be elated, relieved, at peace. Justice has finally be served, the kinslayer and kingslayer is dead, and he’s _free_. Somnus can’t hurt him anymore.

_(But Somnus_ wasn’t the only one _-)_

Nyx should be outraged - outraged that his chance at closure, at revenge, has been taken from him. Outraged that the man who _slaughtered_ his brother and son was allowed to die peacefully in his sleep. Outraged that Somnus Lucis Caelum is _mourned_ by those who chose to forget his uncle and himself and how is that fair?

_(But King Somnus is the one who taught him that life isn_ _’t fair)_

He feels nothing.

_(It doesn_ _’t_ change _anything)_

The man he hates is dead and he feels nothing.

_(The man he still loves and hates himself for that is dead and he feels nothing)_

It makes no difference. He’s free and yet-- Nyx feels nothing because it doesn’t change anything.

_The King is dead_ , they whisper.

But Nyx’s heart still quickens with fear. His stomach still sinks when he leaves the island, his breathing still becomes short when he uses his magic, he still wakes with a crushing weight on his chest and burning pain in his wrists and cold blue eyes staring down at him.

He still _flinches_.

The King is dead.

Nyx wishes the fear had died with him.

**_Long live the King._ **

* * *

“I loved you, once.”

The carved face of the Mystic, of the ‘Founder King’, stares back at him - as unmoving, as unchanging, as that day all those centuries ago.

“I loved you and I believed in you and I looked up to you,” He says easily from the shadows, leaning against the stone walls of the tomb with glowing golden eyes. His words echo - with magic, with truth, with himself - and he smiles. “You could do no wrong in my eyes and I don’t think I ever doubted you, not until that moment.” He pauses, laughing at himself. “No, even in the moment.”

He hadn’t believed it, even as it happened. He remembers trying desperately to figure out what was wrong; what had been _done_ to his father to make him act this way because the dad that he knew wouldn’t do this.

It was only right at the end, he remembers, when he stared Somnus Lucis Caelum in the eye and knew that he was doing it of his own free will, that he realised he’d never known his father at all.

The realisation came too late, when his King was already dead and he himself was dying and a kinslayer had already taken the throne.

Nyx will never forgive himself that.

_(He doesn_ _’t expect that his uncle will, either. Yet Nyx searches anyway)_

“I loved you,” he says and it’s true. It’s always been true. He loved the man who had been his father. “I loved you, even as you hurt me. I loved you, even as I realised that my father had never existed - that I’d never been anything but an heir to you. That you never truly loved me.”

He has long accepted that, long accepted that the loving father from his faded memories is nothing but a facade.

If he had, he wouldn’t have been replaced so thoroughly. If Somnus had loved him, he wouldn’t have _murdered_ him and then martyred him.

“I loved you, even as I feared you. I loved you, even as I hated you.”

“And oh, how I hated you. How I _feared you_. For years, you haunted my nightmares - uncaring eyes and bloodstained wood and cold words. For decades, I lived in fear that you would discover that I lived and would come back and _finish the job_. For centuries, long after your death, the mere _thought_ of you made me **shake**.”

“You taught me betrayal, Somnus Lucis Caelum. You taught me what it is to live in fear, to struggle to trust even your own kin, to see the daggers hidden in kind words better than even court could.”

And growing up in Court had been so good at the last.

He still has the scars from those lessons, learned young and never forgotten but still not enough for him to see the greed in his father’s blue eyes.

“Most of all, you taught me that you can hate a person with everything you are but still - regretfully, hatefully, unwantedly - love them as well.”

How he’d hated himself for that. His father - Somnus - had murdered him, had murdered his _uncle_ and then destroyed his entire legacy. But still, Nyx had loved him and he’d hated himself for that.

He still does, some days.

“I loved you once, Somnus Lucis Caelum. And then I hated you even as I loved you, even as I feared you, even as that loved withered and died day by day until only thin chains remained.”

“But no more.”

Nyx smiles, stepping out of the shadows to stand before the Tomb of the Mystic and he reaches for those metaphysical chains, for that invisible weight.

“You are nothing to me now.”

The chains _snap_.

He’s free.

Nyx Ulric - son of Alya, nephew of Ardyn, grandson of Izunia - laughs.

_(The dead laugh with him)_

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, I hope you all have a lovely chocolately decemberween if nothing else. And, as my gift to you all, have the second installment in the Somnusson Universe because I am a cruel person :D
> 
> (also if you want anything tagged, just tell me. i'm pretty sure i missed some but i can't think of any atm)


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